Crazy Little Thing Called Love (38 page)

“I've missed you, too, Jules.”

“Hey!” Max spoke from the doorway. “You making a move on my girl?”

“My intentions are honorable, I assure you.”

“Sure they are.”

Logan chose not to comment on Max's brace-free leg and his hop-along pace. It wasn't time to talk about what happened in Kansas—yet.

Brady entered the apartment, his booming, “Am I late to the party?” not quite hiding the way he didn't make full eye contact with Logan.

“Nope—just in time. Julie brought the chili, and I've got the drinks, chips, and all the fixings.” Logan motioned toward the small dining room. “Why don't we go ahead and eat?”

He waited until Max and Brady were digging into their second bowls of chili before guiding the conversation away from small talk.

“So, this is great, but I did want to say something to all of you.”

Everyone stopped talking, spoons clattering into dishes.

“I want to say I'm sorry—”

Max cut him off. “No more apologies for the accident, okay, Logan?”

“Let me finish.” Logan sat forward, taking the time to make eye contact with each of his former teammates. “I'm sorry I didn't talk to you all about how I was feeling after the accident. How much it upset me. And I'm also sorry I made the decision to leave the team without talking it out with all of you. I'm hoping you can forgive me for going all Lone Ranger like that.”

Jules spoke up without hesitation. “Of course we can.”

Brady spoke next. “Absolutely.”

Max sat silent.

“Say something, man.” Brady spoke from across the table.

“I'm waiting to see what else Logan has to say.”

Of course Max wasn't making this easy for him.

“I wasn't completely honest with you about why I left the team.” Logan rubbed the back of his neck. “I was getting calls from some of the people who funded us saying they weren't sure they'd back us again next year because of the accident. We'd wrecked some pretty pricey equipment.”

“Not surprising they'd be huffing and puffing about the grants.” Brady shrugged off any concern.

“Again, I should have talked it all out with the team.” Logan nodded toward Max. “Max reminded me that we've always been ‘one for all and all for one.' I forgot that. I'm sorry.”

Julie glanced at Max and finally spoke up. “Are you going to say something now?”

“I'm still waiting to hear what else Logan has to say.”

“He's apologized, Max. What else do you want?”

“I want him to say he's coming back to the team—what else?”

“Look, I asked you all here for one thing tonight. I needed to clear the air between us and because I wanted to ask you all to forgive me for the way I handled things. It's not my place to say if I'm coming back on the team—to be honest, I haven't thought that far ahead. I'm trying to right some wrongs here, not regain my position with the Stormmeisters.”

“I think we should talk about it as a team—” Julie worked her magic with a few soft-spoken words. “—but before that I think we should pray about it. Remember how we used to do that whenever we had a big decision to make—or when we were heading out after some storms?”

“You're right, Jules.”

“But before we do—” Max half stood. “—I need to tell you that I'm sorry, boss. I said some things I shouldn't have—”

“No apologies needed, Max. You had every right to say what you did. I'm glad you spoke up. That's what teammates—and friends—are for.”

Faith is deliberate confidence in the character of God whose ways you may not understand at the time.

—OSWALD CHAMBERS (1874–1917), EVANGELIST

V
anessa settled into the corner of the coffee shop, setting her tall cup of caramel macchiato on the table in front of her. The shop was crowded, the buzz of conversation and piped-in music laced with the strong aroma of coffee. The noise and the nonstop activity provided her more of a chance to fade into the background.

To think.

For a woman who didn't like looking back over her shoulder—who was all about the future, not the past—she found herself stalled out.

She was divorced. Still single, the destination wedding destroyed like a sand castle washed away by an onslaught of waves. And she was the new girl again, having left the church she and Ted had attended, because, well, it seemed like the courteous thing to do. She could have opted for the this-church-is-big-enough-for-both-of-us route, but it seemed right to leave. To start over. After all, she was good at that.

Her hopes for attending physician assistant school were still nothing more than hopes.

Yes, she and Mindy talked several times a week now, sometimes even Skyping or FaceTiming, but that was about it in terms of friendships. She attended church services on Sundays, but always slipped out as the last song began. Relationships were best this close—and no closer.

Maybe she'd do better at trying to improve her relationship with God.

Vanessa pulled her purchase out of her purse, trailing her fingers across the cover of the journal. There was nothing special about the red soft cover or the white lined pages waiting to be filled with words. Thoughts.

Prayers.

The last time she'd written in a journal she'd been a naïve eighteen-year-old. Unaware that in a few short months she'd marry the boy with the shoulder-length blond hair and the electric-blue eyes who gave her rides home from school on his motorcycle.

And here she was, ten years later. Alone. Still trying to figure out who she was. Where she fit. How to find home.

Her prayers were stilted. Sometimes she felt as if she were only talking out loud to herself. And then there were the nights she dozed off midsentence, worn out from shift work.

Buying the journal was an act of desperation. She could only hope God would bless her attempt to draw closer to him.

God,

I don't know how you feel about someone writing to you in a journal—especially a grown woman like me.

But I'm failing at the whole prayer-is-just-talking-to-God endeavor. So I thought maybe I could try writing out my thoughts. I don't mind if you read over my shoulder.

I've always been a keep-moving-forward kind of person (and I apologize for telling you something you already know). I'm not good at relationships—friendships or marriage.

And, to be honest, I blame you for that.

And now that I've written that sentence, I want to scratch it out. Take it back. But you've already read it—and the truth is, you knew it all along.

I got so tired of moving all the time. Of saying hello . . . and goodbye . . . and never having a lasting friendship . . . and not even Logan stayed with me. Couldn't you have given me one person who stayed?

Vanessa dropped her pen onto the open pages of the journal.

This was where she should write the words:
But I know you were with me the whole time, God.

But she needed to be honest. Start where she was. Trust him to be patient with her.

I didn't really think about you much back then—and how knowing you, relying on you, would have made a difference during all the moves. All the changes.

But I'd like to get to know you better now. To understand who you are. What a relationship with you looks like.

You know how bad I am with long-term relationships, but I want to try.

I read somewhere in the Bible that you never leave us or forsake us. I'm going to believe that . . . and I'm going to trust you. Be patient with me, please.

Bad is never good until worse happens.

—DANISH PROVERB

A
nother day off. And she'd spent it fighting against being stuck in neutral.

Vanessa continued her slow walk around the lake, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, one foot in front of the other. Maybe she could fool herself into thinking she was accomplishing something—moving forward—by taking repeated circuits around the lake. The wind, whisking minuscule snow-flakes about her face, tugged at the collar of her coat, reminding her that she'd left her scarf and gloves at home.

An overwhelming feeling of “Tell me what's next, God”—tinged with more than a little desperation—had driven her outside. She could have spent the day relaxing. Maybe pulled one of the books from her to-be-read pile. Or she could have decided yes or no on school. And why wasn't that an easy yes? For some reason she couldn't bring herself to send her acceptance email to the school, which made no sense at all.

So she'd opted for a walk. Hoping that as she braved the cold, the wind, the light snow, she would stop thinking of all she'd lost. Stop wondering what happened next.

She'd pretend she had Mrs. Wright's faith in God—although that kind of strength, of conviction, came with years of choosing to say, “Okay, God, you are who you say you are.” Maybe she could pretend to be like Mrs. Wright's daughter. If all she had was the figment of a desire to trust God . . . well, that was a start.

I'm floundering, God, but I'm trusting you. I believe, no matter what, you know what you're doing. You promise to be the stability of my times—no matter how badly life spins out of control.

She'd prayed that prayer over and over since November. Her journal was filled with letters to God. She would trust him, cling to that truth, no matter how confused she felt. How alone.

When her iPhone buzzed, she debated ignoring it. But what if it was work calling to ask her to cover someone's shift? An escape from monotony and sitting on the edge of the Pit of Despair. It was somewhat funny in the movie
The Princess Bride
. In real life? Not at all.

Her phone buzzed again.
Hmmm.
It was the same number that had appeared on her phone several times in the last eight weeks—one she didn't recognize.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Hollister?”

Sounded like a telemarketer. Vanessa positioned her thumb over the end button. “Yes?”

“This is the wedding coordinator at the Henderson Park Inn. I'm calling because we desperately need to finalize your destination wedding plans for next month—”

The iPhone almost slipped from Vanessa's grasp. “W-what did you just say?”

“Your wedding? Scheduled for April third? It's a month away, and I've called and emailed you several times to finalize the details—”

Vanessa stopped in the middle of the path. “I
canceled
the wedding months ago. I sent an email to your assistant. And besides—I really only wanted to be penciled in—”

“Ms. Hollister—”

“Vanessa, please.”

“Vanessa, I assure you that we never received an email from you. If we had, you would have received a
phone call
from either my assistant or me explaining that we don't do cancellations via email.” The coordinator kept her voice calm—almost soothing. She was good at her job. “Both the Internet and phone service are unreliable on the island—so we prefer to discuss things over the phone. That way if we do get disconnected, we can just redial and continue the conversation. A lost email, well, it's just lost.”

Vanessa bent over double, one arm wrapped around her waist. The woman was stating facts—stating the obvious—and pulling her into a destination-wedding debacle, word by word.

“But I'm not getting married.” She stood again, sucking in a deep breath of Colorado winter. “I ended the engagement months ago, back in November.”

Silence echoed back to her. Well, the woman had surprised
her
—it was only fair she also had a chance to shock the wedding coordinator.

“I'm so sorry to hear that. I truly am, Vanessa. But—”

Vanessa moved off the path over to a wooden park bench and sat down, staring out at the partially frozen lake. She knew how the rest of the conversation would go. “But . . . that doesn't change anything, does it?”